Secret Admirer

  The dogs and guards were now visible at the end of the street but he did not care. It was going to be fine. He was the Winner. “I’m William,” he heard himself spying.

  “My house is just around the corner, William,” she told him, moving more quickly. They stopped in front of a two-story building with a White door. She fished around in her purse and withdrew a set of keys, but her fingers were trembling so much that she could not get them into the lock.

  The dogs rushed up the street, sweat flying off them, their teeth barred. The Lion could see them, could see the teeth, could smell their disgusting breath. They were only half a block away, people leaping aside to make room for them, children gripping the hems of their nannies’ gowns, a boy dropping his sugar stick with fear, the dogs were coming, they were looking right at him, they were salivating for him, starving for him.

  Come on come on come on!

  She dropped the keys.

  “Allow me,” he said, charming smile, no hint of his agitation. He picked up the keys, slid one into the lock, opened it and held the door open, for her. He had not quite figured out how to maneuver himself in yet, but she took care of that for him. She was trembling so badly that she could not walk up the stairs to her apartment. He offered her his arm to lean on and she accepted it gratefully. ‘

  At the apartment door she turned to look at him, her hand still on his forearm. “I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here, William,” she said. “I can’t believe how, how silly I’ve been but the dogs, the robbers—they just terrified me so much. It is hard for a woman on her own. Thank you for walking me home. And for staying with me.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “William, you are kind to say that, but what must you think of me?”

  She had little dimples and lovely lips. He said, telling the truth, “I think you are charming and beautiful.”

  She blushed deeply. “I know this is irregular, but it seems the least I can do after—after all that. If you were to step inside with me, I believe I have something that will take the wine stain right out.”

  Not too eager. “That is not necessary—”

  “Oh please. Please allow me to.”

  “You would do that? For me? A stranger?” Charming smile.

  “You are hardly a stranger now. And it is I who made the mess.”

  “Bosh. A ruined jacket is a small price to pay for making the acquaintance of a ministering angel.”

  She blushed again and opened the door.

  “This is a lovely place,” he said, because he knew he should, when they were inside. There were drawings tacked all over the Walls, a bit like at his house, but the rest of the place was much tidier.

  “It is not really mine,” she confided as she directed him to a chair at a small round table. She hesitated for a moment. “It’s—it’s my fiancé’s. I am engaged. But he won’t mind me having you up.”

  The dogs were downstairs, barking. He could see the cloud of dust stirred up by their feet as they ran in circles in the street, wondering where the scent had gone. And he was upstairs, safe. With a lovely Woman.

  “Engaged? Brave man, letting a creature like you alone with other men when he hasn’t even made it legal yet,” he joked, just like Lawrence Pickering would, as he removed his stained jacket.

  He saw her give his fine shoulders an appreciative glance before saying, “He has no choice.”

  “Why is that?”

  She was moving around the room, putting things away, looking for the powder that would remove the Wine, but he could tell that she was eager to share her story. “He is missing. Disappeared during the war. I try to keep the place just as he left it, so that if—when he comes home it will be exactly how it was.” She now sat down next to him at the table and looked at him from under her long eyelashes. “You did not fight in the war, did you William?”

  He had an urge to seem brave to her. He had vanquished the dogs. Overcome His Lordship’s men. And that was just the beginning. “Actually, I did.”

  “Why? You look like a man of means.”

  “Well, the truth is—” the Lion paused, trying to figure out what to say, what lie to tell. He felt wonderful. It was very nice being in this little apartment with CeCe. With her not knowing him, not recognizing him. With her Worshiping him. He’d heard the other guards talk about her but he himself had been too busy to notice how pretty she was. And now she was sitting there, right next to him, Watching him. Wanting him. He knew he was a great Knight and that his Lady loved him, but sometimes the Waiting got a little lonely. It was really nice to have someone to talk to. Someone to look at. To look at him that way.

  “What happened is that my grandmother died. After that I did not know what to do with myself so I signed up to fight for Her Majesty,” he answered, astonishing himself. It was the truth, just like he’d given her his true name. Or part of it.

  “You must have loved your grandmother very much,” she said.

  “Yes.” Suddenly he wanted to tell her everything. Share his favorite memory with her. “Her death—

  (“I told you what I would do if I caught you with your hands on one of the girls again,” the old woman said, opening and closing her bony hands like claws. “Go to the kennels, you hideous boy, and meditate on what you are. You will sleep there for a week.”

  “I don’t think so, grandmother.”

  “Do it, William! Do what I say or you will be sorry.” The old woman’s eyes were blazing and she was leaning forward in her chair. The ratty blanket that covered her legs slipped away and he could see how thin she was. How feeble.

  “There is nothing you can do to me, ma’am,” young William, not yet the Lion but on his way, told his grandmother quietly. “I learned your lessons too well.” Men are ruled by fear not love. He was not going to be afraid anymore.

  He held up the glittering knife he had found in his father’s ancient trunk so the old woman could see it in the candlelight. Could get scared. But she just looked at him with disgust.

  “You haven’t got the nerve to skin a cat,” she said. “Even the chambermaids you approach think you are pathetic. ‘Whimpering Willy’ they call you. I tried to make you a real knight but you were too backward. And you go around with your pants down, touching yourself. You are wicked. You disgust me.” She leaned forward to glare at him with her dark glittering eyes. And then she puckered her shriveled lips together. And spit in his face.

  The feeling of the knife severing her thin neck had been incredible. He was in charge now. He was the master! He was the knight! He had killed the dragon!)

  “My grandmother’s death changed everything in my life,” he explained to CeCe, his hands flexing and unflexing with the remembered feeling of the knife. The same knife he still used for his killings. “It made me think about what was important. Made me realize I needed to aspire to higher things.”

  They had never caught him, because he had gone to Lawrence Pickering and pleaded to be allowed to serve on his boat. Begged to be allowed to serve him. And the fool had taken him in, without asking about his pedigree, or being bothered by the fact that he ducked his head every time a constable from Worcester came close by. Had taken him in and trusted him and trained him.

  The Lion had deceived him entirely—entirely! He had killed Curtis right under His Lordship’s nose. He’d been the one to shoot at Albert Marston to ensure that they believed him as a witness and went with his description. He’d led them to the explosive-filled hideout by letting himself be seen regularly in a memorable disguise. He had been directing them, ruling them all along. And every single thing he had done had worked. He was the Winner again!

  Every helpful thing he did just made him look better, more Worthy of trust. The time he spent around Worthington Hall just made him seem more concerned, more interested in catching the Lion. He had fooled them all, fooled them brilliantly.

  Killing his grandmother had been the best moment of his life so
far. But killing Lawrence Pickering—seeing His Lordship’s face as he realized that he was not the best, that the Lion was the real Knight of Knights—killing Lawrence Pickering was going to be better.

  He looked at the Woman next to him and wanted to share it all with her. Wanted to tell her how he had fooled them all, how he was smarter and braver and more clever than even Lawrence Pickering. Maybe he would, he decided. He was not lonely, but it was really very nice to have someone with him.

  He had never been alone with a Woman like this, just sitting at a table, talking. Sharing memories. It was a strange feeling, and he was not sure what to do. He said what he thought Lawrence Pickering would say. He said, “Doesn’t it get lonely waiting for your fiancé to come back?”

  She had her head bent over his jacket, cleaning it, but she glanced up at him with a slight smile and said, “Oh yes. Terribly.”

  “You must be very loyal to have waited so long. The war has been over for more than a year.”

  She said, “It—it is not so bad. But it is nice to have a handsome man like you to sit opposite.”

  He reached out and put his finger under her chin, raising her face from the jacket to his. “You are a very beautiful girl, CeCe.”

  Her eyes grew huge and the jacket accidentally slid to the floor. They both bent down to retrieve it, their heads knocking, their hands coming together. They laughed, and as they sat up he kept hold of her fingers.

  “I don’t do this very often,” she said, blushing all the way into the bodice of her gown. “Invite men up here, I mean. In fact, I’ve never done anything like it before.”

  “I am glad you did it for me.” He looked at her the way he’d seen His Lordship looking at his Lady. Then he took her hand and brought it to his lips. He felt her tremble again. “Is CeCe your real name?”

  “No,” she said, breathlessly. “It is just a nickname. My real name is too absurd to use.”

  He pressed her hand between his. “What is it?”

  “You really want to know?”

  Her palm was smooth and delicate. It felt nice. “Yes.”

  “Promise you won’t make fun of me?”

  He nodded.

  “Patience. Patience is my real name.”

  His heart stopped beating. Patience is our most powerful ally.

  It was a message for him. A sign. A sign of his success, of his luck. He had been right to go with her. To trust her. “That is a beautiful name.” He smiled His Lordship’s smile at her. “May I kiss you, Patience?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure. My fiancé—”

  He leaned over and kissed her. She did not taste like he thought Lady Arlington would, but she was nice. Her lips were soft and warm. She did not pull away.

  “Do you believe two people can fall in love when they first meet?” he asked her.

  Her eyes opened slowly from the kiss. “I—I don’t know.”

  “I think I am falling in love with you, Patience.”

  “Oh.” She looked down at their clasped hands and he felt her knee close against his leg. He began to pull her closer, for another kiss, when she started slightly.

  He saw where she was looking. His shirt had been pushed up when he moved and her eyes were on his scar.

  “Did you get that in the war?” she asked, touching it gently.

  Her fingers on his Wrist made him tingle. “No,” he answered again truthfully. “It is a dog bite.”

  “How terrible. I hate dogs.”

  “So do I.”

  They looked at each other deeply. Her hand was on his thigh, moving up.

  Men are ruled by love not fear, he thought, and then realized that was backwards. She was confusing him. Being with her was strange. Upsetting.

  Nice.

  “Are you hungry William?” she asked.

  “Only for more of your kisses.” His Lordship could not have said it better.

  She blushed. “What if I were to make you supper? And we could dine together. I—I would really like to spend the evening with you. To get to know you better.”

  No one had ever made supper just for him. No one had ever wanted to sit, just with him, for a whole evening. Especially no Woman. She leaned toward him and her bodice gaped slightly. Inside, her breasts spelled W. It was a sign. He could feel it all the way in his pants. Near where her fingers were.

  He made himself shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “All right. If you don’t mind.”

  “It would be a pleasure,” she said, looking at him with so much Worship he thought he could fly. “A real pleasure. But I must go out to purchase a few things.”

  “Like more Wine?”

  She laughed. “Exactly.”

  “I will miss you, Patience. Hurry.”

  “I will, William.” She rose to go and reluctantly took her free hand from his.

  The Lion sat quietly at the table and waited for her for two hours, but she did not come back.

  He had known she wouldn’t. He had seen that she was sent by his Lady as a temptation. And as a warning, to be patient. Just as he knew that she would betray him. In fact, he was counting on it. But it was still a little sad.

  Patience.

  He would have liked to have had supper with her.

  CeCe ran all the way back to Worthington Hall, rubbing her lips with the back of her hand and trying desperately not to sob.

  Chapter 32

  The dogs found nothing. “But this flower seller, he got woked up by a bloke wanting to buy a rose,” Grub said that afternoon. His feet ached from all his running around but he was glad he’d been able to discover at least someone who had seen something.

  “Could he describe him?” Lawrence asked.

  “Medium,” Grub replied with annoyance. “Medium height, medium-brown hair, medium build. Only noticeable thing about him was his clothes.”

  “Which were?”

  “Bright green, sir. Same as that cloth at the murder scene.”

  “I guess that is something,” Tuesday said wearily. She felt numb. It was as if she had too much to see to, too much to take in, to even absorb George’s death. Absorb her part in it. She had never wanted George to die. Never. How could she have helped kill him?

  Telling Lucy Burns had been terrible. Every time she looked at the girl she felt reproached. Both for her part—what part? She wanted no part. She had no power, no control—in George’s death. And for her own lack of feeling.

  She could not let herself believe it. George had been her friend, her collaborator, for so long. He could not be dead. He was just away.

  Away forever.

  Think about that later, she cautioned herself. Today what she needed to do was find the Lion. Find the man responsible for tormenting her.

  Ha ha ha, she could almost hear him laughing.

  “I’ll have to go talk to him and do a drawing of the man the flower seller saw, so we can know what disguise Albert Marston is sporting now,” she announced. “What time did he say the man was there?”

  “Half past seven o’clock, ma’am.”

  Tuesday inhaled sharply. “That’s impossible. That’s after I finished my painting. Long after.”

  She and Lawrence had the same thought at the same time. “Unless—”

  “What?” Grub asked, looking from one to the other of them.

  “Maybe the Lion has not been in my dreams at all. Maybe the killings take place after my dreams. Maybe he has just been copying the paintings, not creating them with me.” The rush of relief brought with it a rush of grief for George. No emotions, she told herself. Keep them all back.

  “That would explain the word,” Lawrence said without thinking.

  “What word?”

  He sorted her painting out from where the guard had hidden it, under a pile of papers. “That word.”

  Tuesday saw her name inscribed on the side of the paper. “But I didn’t write that,” she said.

  “No. I can’t believe I did
not see this before. You painted over the calendar and that word bled through because you used a lighter color paint there. It happened while the painting was drying. Which was when the Lion was looking at it.”

  “You mean my name was written at the crime scene?”

  Lawrence pretended to find something very interesting across the room that kept him from meeting her eyes. “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I forgot.”

  “You forgot. And now you think that my name, that word ‘Tuesday,’ being the only one to appear when I painted over the calendar is—what would you call it, Grub?—a coincidence?”

  “Aye, ma’am. A coincidence.”

  Tuesday was glad to see Lawrence flinch.

  Grub shook his head. “But why would he do that? Copy one of your paintings?”

  “I don’t know.” Tuesday moved toward the mantelpiece and picked up a small glass elephant.

  “If it’s true,” Lawrence began, “it means you don’t have a killer in your head.”

  “Yes,” Tuesday agreed, turning the elephant around and around in her hands without seeing it. “But it also means that the Lion is deliberately using my pictures as plans for murders.”

  “It could be another way for him to honor you,” Lawrence pointed out. “By bringing your paintings, your artwork to life.”

  “Or to death,” Grub corrected, and Tuesday blanched.

  “There is something else,” she continued after a moment of silence. “If the Lion isn’t causing the dream, why do I keep having it? And if he isn’t the one in my head, then who is?”

  Tuesday had not intended to break the glass elephant, but when CeCe came rushing in calling for Morse and sobbing that she was supposed to be making dinner for the killer, it fell from her hands and smashed against the back of the fireplace.

  Lawrence and Tuesday spent the rest of the day arguing and only came to an agreement as it grew dark.

  Instead of going to CeCe’s fiancé’s apartment, which he may well have set to explode again, they would force the Lion to come to them. Unless they were deeply mistaken, he would be unable to keep himself from Worthington Hall, from coming to see what steps they were taking and to preen over how much of a flurry he had put them into. They also wagered that he would chase after CeCe once he realized that she had betrayed him. The best way to catch him, they decided, would be to trap him then.